


God Be With You

by LogicIsGod327



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Genocide, Imprisonment, Literally everything bad, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-04-05 04:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14036106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicIsGod327/pseuds/LogicIsGod327
Summary: A set of interviews, newspaper articles, phone call transcripts, and archival footage tell the story of the Holy States of America, a brief tyrannical regime that engaged in a brutal campaign of genocide, ethnic cleansing, and religious violence from its beginnings in a nuclear civil war, to its indignified ending and reunification with the United States.





	1. Interview: Genim Stilinski

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, second shot at it. Find New Host drained me more than I thought, and I wasn’t a fan of the first run at this story. Once this story is complete, I’ll repost it in linear order.

DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY  
CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION

**Interview 22.5.2023-01**  
**Interviewer: Sarah Naveen, Ph.D**  
**Subject: Genim Stilinski, prisoner ID 19303-CA-MDC**

SN: Thank you, Mr. Stilinski, for sitting with me.

GS: Please, call me Stiles.

SN: I’m Sarah. Now, did you have a particular subject you wanted to talk about?

GS: [Sigh]

SN: We don't have to talk about it if you don’t want to. This is on a volunteer basis. If you want to stop, that’s fine.

GS: No, no! I can, it’s just… it’s a lot. I guess I should start at the action.

SN: Okay, go ahead.

GS: We’d been hiding for about four months in a place called Beatty, Nevada. Real stereotypical desert town, barely four hundred people, everything was in varying states of decay. Derek’s family had built a really huge house in the desert outside of town. After the HSA crackdown on subversives started, a bunch of us fled there.

SN: How many?

GS: It was supposed to be eleven, but one of us got caught on the way out. We’re pretty sure he’s dead.

SN: Is there a name? The HSA kept immaculate records until they fell. I can look him up.

GS: Yeah. It’s, uh, Danny Mahealani.

SN: Daniel Joseph Mahealani… charged with sodomy. Executed April 2, 2019.

GS: Fuck, I need to-

**AUDIO CUT**

SN: You’re sure?

GS: I’m fine. The news just hit me hard.

SN: Stiles. It can wait.

GS: [Tensely] I said I’m fine.

SN: If I may ask, are any of the others alive?

GS: One that we know of. Melissa was rescued by a German navy ship off of the coast of California on her way to a camp in Baranof Island, which the HS had occupied. She’s living in Würzburg, trying to get home.

SN: Just you, Derek, and Melissa?

GS: We _think_ Isaac is in Canada. They’re really tight about refugee privacy, so we have to jump all these hoops to verify who we are and that we were captured with him, and even then, if he doesn’t want to see us, we won’t even know if he’s alive or dead.

SN: I’m sure he’ll want to see you. You said wanted to start at your capture?

GS: As I said, we were hiding out in Beatty, Nevada for about four months. It was August when we got caught.

**†**

The door was kicked in. Stiles is acutely aware of this fact as he snaps up in the bed, Derek snarling and ripping towards the door at the same moment. Vague sounds of yelling carry from upstairs, barked orders.

“Remember, the Commander wants them alive!” A voice barks.

Another door is kicked in, and a female voice screams. Lydia.

“Holy Army, put your hands up!” A gruff man bellows.

Gunshots. Two. Three. A burst of automatic weapons fire. Someone else screams. More gunfire. It stops.

“Hostile down!”

They’re getting dressed, as quickly as they can. Derek is fully shifted, claws out and eyes burning red. Boots thunder up the stairs, more doors are kicked in. More screams. Pleas.

“Don’t hurt her!” Boyd yells. They wait.

The door is kicked so hard it slams off the hinges. Derek lunges for the soldier, but a taser is flying at him. Midway through the air, his body contorts and falls flat. The soldier, dressed in pale grey fatigues, has a nightstick out in an instant, and slams it against his head. Derek’s out cold.

“You gonna fight, too?” The soldier demands.

Before Stiles can answer, the man is across the room, slamming him into the wooden wall of the cabin so hard the window shakes. His world is pain, and he groans weakly as he’s being cuffed.

“Godless bastards.” The soldier mutters to himself. “The alpha is down!” He yells to the others.

Stiles is barely conscious as something it placed over his mouth and, oh, God, he’s being fucking _muzzled_. He’s dragged downstairs, barely able to walk as he’s pushed out of the door, where two trucks wait. Jackson is being pushed into one, swearing and struggling through his muzzle as he does. Lydia and Isaac are in the other, directly ahead.

“Where’s this one going?” A commander asks of the soldier holding Stiles.

“Found him in the same room as the alpha. Sodomite, probably. Execute him?”

Stiles almost wants the commander to say yes. “No. Too much paperwork. The old one killing Connor already has put a shitload of reports for me. Just send him to the camp.”

He’s hauled into the truck with Lydia and Isaac. He reaches as far as the cuffs will let him, and takes her hands, hearing the barely restrained sobs from behind her own muzzle.

Melissa, and finally, Derek, are both thrown into the truck. Scott, Jackson, Erica, and Boyd are all in the other. The soldiers slam the doors closed, and they drive. No one can exchange a word, the muzzles have made sure of that. Derek remains groggy the entire trip, leaning heavily against Stiles, their breaths stagnating in the hot cab of the detention truck.

Hours pass. The cab grows brighter as the sun rises, narrow shafts of August light filtering in through the oxygen slats that provide just enough of a cross breeze to keep the air just this side of habitable. Eventually, everyone calms down, no longer panicked, but simply full of the kind of utter terror that leaves a person unable to react. Stiles runs his fingers through Derek’s tresses as the werewolf rests his head in his lap. They keep driving.

After who knows how long, the truck finally stops. The cab shakes with the force of the driver and passenger doors being slammed, and they can hear footsteps, as well as distant shouts. The locks on the outside of the doors click, and suddenly, the dark, dank room is filled with blinding light. Everyone raises cuffed hands to cover their eyes, even as the HSA soldiers drag them out into the blinding light of day.

When his eyes adjust, Stiles sees that they’re deep in the midst of a forest, clearly hundreds of miles from the cabin in Beatty. As he’s dragged forward, what he sees makes his stomach drop, and, just as suddenly, warmth soaks through his pants as he loses all bladder control and pisses himself.

Ahead is a barbed wire fence easily twenty feet tall. Guard towards dot the fence line, beyond that, rows and rows of barracks, and other, taller buildings, some with smokestacks, and one large structure where cloying black smoke rises. People, all in drab, olive green uniforms, mill about sullenly in the yards, prodded by armed guards in light grey HS Army fatigues. A sign on above the gates announces the name of this hellhole.

_‘Mendocino Detention Center for the Godless and Seditious’_

As he’s dragged through the gates, the only thing that reverberates in his mind are the words of Elie Wiesel.

_‘For the living and the dead, we must bear witness.’_

**†**

SN: That was the day you arrived at Mendocino.

GS: Yes.

SN: What happened next?

GS: They took Derek and Isaac away, and then we were led through processing. Sorted by sex, forced to dress down, showered in ice cold water, and given our uniforms, all while still muzzled. We had a quick health exam, then we were led back into general population. We were assigned a number, then. They didn’t tattoo them on us, but they were on every article of clothing we had. One guard told us that if we had any clothing that didn’t match our number, we’d be beaten.

SN: God almighty.

GS: [Choking up] After that, we were brought to our barracks. As new arrivals, we all got stuck together, and then we were unmuzzled. It was then that Derek and Isaac both showed up, and they told us what they did to them.

SN: What did they do?

RECORD EXPUNGED — TOP SECRET

**†**

“They _what?!_ ” Stiles demands.

Derek sighs, still groggy. “They injected us with some kind of wolfsbane cocktail. We can’t shift. We’re weak. Our healing is gone.” He gestures to the wolf head patch on his right sleeve. “Our abilities will stay repressed until we can filter out the shit.”

Melissa swallows thickly. “They finally found the cure.”

“Not a cure. A treatment, I guess. We need weekly injections to stay like this.” Isaac says.

“That’s fucked.” Lydia shakes her head. “This is all so fucked. What the fuck is happening?!” She shrieks the last part.

“Hey!” Derek barks. “None of that shit! You keep your fucking shit together. You are not losing it!” He shakes her.

Lydia looks up at Derek, her eyes wide and childlike for the briefest of moments, utter terror plain on her face. Then, it passes. Her eyes harden, and her face composes itself.

“I’m okay.” She whispers.

“Good.” Derek nods.

“New arrivals?” A voice breaks out.

The speaker is a young woman, in the same olive green uniform, as well as a skirt. “I’m Alex.” She says. “What are you guys in for?”

“Not sure. We went underground a while back, then they showed up and dragged us out in the night.” Melissa shakes her head.

“Ah. They call that _‘evasion of registration’._ It’s a bullshit term that carries a sentence of rehabilitation.” She says. “They’ve been lax on explaining shit to the new ones, so let me tell you now. There’s one meal a day, dinner. Prayers are at eight, noon, six, and ten at lights out. If you wanna eat, you pray. If you’re out of your building after lights out, you’ll get beaten. If you speak to a guard without being spoken to, you’ll get beaten. If you must speak to a guard first, you go up and wait for him to acknowledge you.”

Stiles nods. “Thank you.”

“Anyone have any technical skills?” Alex asks.

“I’m an RN.” Melissa says.

The other woman shakes her head. “You’re gonna wind up working in the infirmary. It’s not a pretty place. Patching up people who got beaten, treating typhus and anything else. The rest of you got nothing?”

They shake their heads.

“Good. You’ll be free range. Just avoid the guards, don’t get mouthy, and stick together. Rape is a problem here, and they don’t exactly punish prisoner-on-prisoner shit. And they’re not picky about who they try.” She says.

“How long have you been here?” Lydia queries.

Alex shrugs. “Not sure. It was June when I got caught.”

“It’s August.” Stiles adds. “What did they catch you for?”

“I’m Jewish.” She replies. “Yep. My great grandfather died in Auschwitz, and now I’m facing the same thing. Never again, my ass. Come on, it’s still a few hours until dinner, let’s get you settled in.” She leads them to a set of unoccupied bunks.

**†**

SN: What happened to Alex?

GS: She got cocky. She’d sleep with guards, trade sex for supplies to give to the kids or the elderly, people who needed more than what they gave us. One day, an officer who… frequented her, he, uh, he snapped at her. She mouthed off, and he blew her brains out all over the concrete.

SN: I’m sorry.

GS: So am I. She deserved better. The Latino kids called her _la dama verde_ , the green lady. They didn’t speak English, and she didn’t speak Spanish, but she always snuck them rations, especially the little ones.

SN: Do you need a break?

GS: Yeah, I’d like one please. Do you know where I can get lunch?

SN: Come on, there’s a café in the basement. I could use a burger.

**END SESSION**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this story will be non-linear. The next chapter will be another interview. Drop a review!


	2. Interview: Derek Hale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is Derek’s first interview, and, to stress, it deals with a different time than Stiles’ did. The next chapter won’t be an interview, and will deal with the beginning of the HSA.

DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY  
TOP SECRET INFORMATION

FOR S.C.I. SECURITY CLEARANCE EYES ONLY

**Interview 22.5.2023-06**  
**Interviewer: Sarah Naveen, Ph.D**  
**Subject: Derek Hale, prisoner ID A-00012-CA-MDC**

SN: Good to see you again, Derek.

DH: You too, Sarah.

SN: So, where were we?

DH: Wyoming. A couple of weeks after the escape.

SN: That’s right. You, Lydia, and Stiles were in… Laramie?

DH: About thirty miles outside of it. The car we’d snatched in Salt Lake City had died, so we were hoofing it.

SN: In November, half starved?

DH: It wasn’t easy. Especially considering Lydia’s condition.

SN: I can imagine.

**†**

They’ve been walking for almost fifteen miles now. The car died on the road, and they’ve been forced to retreat a few hundred yards from the interstate to avoid being seen. The entire area is bleak as all Hell. The thick, grey clouds overhead choke out most sunlight, the air is bitter cold and windy, and the endless flat plains are covered in nothing but dead grass and shrubbery.

It’s getting dark fast, and they can’t risk being caught outside, especially in the state they’re in. The ragged olive uniforms hang on them like feed sacks. Derek’s hair is limp and fragile, and his cheeks are still sunken, but his eyes, once a flat grey, are finally back to their normal kaleidoscope. His body has finished filtering out most of the wolfsbane cocktail that forced him into a bastardized version of humanity, and he can finally hear and smell at his full ability.

Lydia’s hands are curled protectively around her stomach, where, despite her starved body, and all the stress and trauma, the first signs of pregnancy have made themselves visible. This child, conceived in hate and violation, has become her tether.

Stiles isn’t much better than Lydia. His hair was shorn near-bald as punishment a few weeks ago, and still has not grown, and his broken arm is still throbbing, even a month after the guard snapped it with a truncheon. The last rays of daylight are fading rapidly, when a barn appears on the horizon.

“There.” Derek points. “It’s far from the house. We can crash there for the night.”

The survivors trudge through the dead tallgrass of the fields towards the old barn, whose red paint is faded and peeling, but the upkeep of which is still obvious. Derek can hear the heartbeats of three cows inside, and even from outside of the barn, he can feel the heat radiating off of the animals.

Lydia slips inside first, finding the building otherwise unoccupied. She reappears in the doorway with a large, heavy looking blanket in hands.

“It’s a horse blanket, but no horses. It’ll keep us warm.” She explains. “There’s an empty hayloft we can sleep up in to avoid getting spotted.”

Her melodic voice is gone, replaced by something cut with fear and ragged from disuse and thirst. The two men join her in the surprisingly warm barn, which is lit by a single old overhead, filling the room with mellow golden light. The cows eye them with interest, but make no movements or noises. Gingerly, they climb into the hayloft, and find a few old potato sacks.

Stiles arranges the sacks into something passable for a bed, and presses them into the far corner. The three of them snuggle close together, with Stiles pressed between Lydia and Derek, being held by the werewolf as he holds the pregnant woman. Throwing the blanket over themselves, it takes only seconds for them to fall into a deep, almost deathlike sleep.

The next morning, the sound that wakes Derek is an old woman climbing up into the loft. She’s thin, with grey hair pulled back into an efficient bun, wearing a jean jacket and grey pants. Her eyes are blue, and her face is covered with smile lines. She looks kind. The woman gasps aloud and speaks.

“Oh, my Lord.”

**†**

DH: I thought we were going to be reported that day.

SN: But you weren’t.

DH: No, we weren’t. We were saved. We didn’t know what was up with the border situation, and it was a big assumption that any of us would even live long enough to reach it. In that weather, with how weak we were? We could’ve been just more of the hundreds of thousands who starved or froze to death trying to escape, or got killed at the border zone.

SN: So, the people at the farm? Who are they?

DH: An old couple. Edmund and Alice Calvert, they were farmers. Their son and his wife were on vacation in Myrtle Beach when everything went down, so they were alone.

SN: Are they…?

DH: They’re still alive, and doing good. We just saw them at Christmas. They still live in Wyoming.  
I think Lydia is part of the reason.

SN: Lydia? Why do you say that?

DH: She’s buried on their farm.

SN: Oh. I knew she hadn’t survived, but…

DH: Childbirth. She died in childbirth.

SN: And the baby?

DH: Stillborn. A little boy.

SN: I’m sorry.

DH: Me too.

**†**

“Let’s get you inside.” The woman guides them out of the barn. “God, you poor kids.”

“Ma’am?” Stiles asks. “Are you gonna report us?”

She turns. “My name is Alice, and no, I won’t give you up to those monsters. You can stay here as long as you need. Until this nonsense ends, if it comes to it.”

The three escapees sag with visible relief as they’re guided into the large farmhouse. It’s a cozy old building, with faded floral wallpaper in the kitchen, a wood stove burning in the corner, and a humble table with six chairs around it. Alice makes them sit, and quickly runs into the other room.

“Edmund, get out here.” She says. Seconds later, an old man follows Alice out into the kitchen. He has a full crop of white hair, and wears a red flannel shirt and jeans. His brown eyes bulge and he swears as he catches sight of them.

“Jesus Herbert Walker Christ!” Edmund gasps.

“They’re… I don’t know who they are.” She says. “But they were sleeping in the barn.”

Lydia speaks up. “My name is Lydia Martin. This is Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale. We’re all from Beacon Hills, California. Two weeks ago, we escaped from a death camp in Mendocino, California. We’re trying to get to Canada.”

The old man shakes his head. “You won’t make it. HSA has the border locked down. You’re more likely to survive crossing that nuclear wasteland along the Mississippi.”

“Shit.” Stiles puts his head in his hands. “God fucking _dammit_.”

Derek wraps an emaciated arm around Stiles’ bony shoulders. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not!” Stiles sits up, tears brimming in his eyes. “We’ve been there for four fucking months and we finally make it out, and now we’re stuck in this shithole! We might as well just march into town and let them shoot us dead!”

“They don’t come out here, it’s too far out of the way.” Alice says. “We can get your strength back up, and you can help us. Our kids are back in the US, and we can’t maintain this farm on our own.”

Lydia clears her throat. “Wait. Before you open your home to us, you should know.” She stands, drawing up her shirt. “I’m pregnant.”

Normally, just barely entering the second trimester, a baby doesn’t show, but Lydia’s form is so thin that the small bulge of her stomach is plainly visible.

“That complicates some things.” Edmund concedes. “But we’ll make it work. My sister is a retired midwife, I’ll get her here when the baby is born.”

“Thank you.” Derek says, ever so softly.

The old man pats him on the shoulder. “It’s the right thing, son. Now, let’s get you lot some clean clothes, and a shower, and then we’ll get some food in you.”

Edmund leads them upstairs to a spacious bathroom with a shower, and directs them to the two empty bedrooms. Lydia takes the first shower, and the man vanished into his own room for a moment. He returns with a few sets of jeans and shirts and places them in Derek’s arms.

“You’re underweight, but once we get you built back up, these will fit you good, you’re about my size.” He says.

Derek smiles wanly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, don’t sir me, you’re gonna be living under my roof. Ed will do just fine.”

“Thank you, Ed.” He corrects himself with a chuckle.

“That’s better, now, Stiles, was it?” He turns to the younger man.

“Yeah.”

“In that dresser there is my son’s stuff, he should fit you okay, and the closet has some of my daughter-in-law’s clothes, they might fit Lydia.” Edmund points to the small closet in the back corner. “If not, let me know your sizes, and I’ll make a run into town to pick some up.”

“Thank you.” Stiles says. “We would’ve died out there.”

“Well, you won’t die on my watch.” Ed replies. “Now, uh, correct me if I’m wrong, but you two, you’re an item, aren’t you?”

Derek nods. “Is that gonna be a problem?” He tersely asks.

“Not in the least. I’m just making sure. You two can take this room, and Lydia will have the guest room. I’ll have to see about digging up Henry’s old crib and baby clothes, they’ll have to do. I’ll also have to see about diapers and all that nonsense.” He exits the room, mumbling to himself.

After Lydia finishes showering, the difference is plainly visible. Her dirt-caked skin is clean, though her pallor is even more apparent. The shadows under her eyes are lighter, and her hair looks more like its natural color. More than that, she looks visibly relaxed, and has a small smile on her face.

“You two are up.” She says, a towel wrapped around her thin body.

“We’ll go together.” Stiles says.

“Of course you will.” She chuckles, taking note of the dress laid out for her. “Jesus, an actual farm wife’s dress. We really are in Wyoming. The fabric is cute, though. Maybe I can cut this into a top.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “We’ve just escaped a concentration camp, and you’re out here talking about making a cute top.” He laughs.

“Fashion is important.” Lydia laughs back. “Go shower. I haven’t had privacy in almost five months, I’d like some to get dressed.”

With the pale blue floral dress on and in a pair of flats, she heads down to the kitchen, where Lydia finds Alice bent over the stove, frying up eggs and bacon. The older woman looks up, and smiles when she catches sight of her.

“You look lovely in that dress. Kara would be glad to see it’s getting use.” She says.

“Kara, is that your daughter-in-law?” Lydia asks.

Alice nods. “She married Henry about four years back. After Ed had his heart attack, they moved onto the farm to help us out. They were in Myrtle Beach when those bombs started flying. Haven’t heard from them in almost a year, now.”

“I’m sorry.” Lydia rests a hand on her arm. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

“Lord, I pray.” She shakes her head, putting a few strips of bacon onto a plate and loading more into the cast iron pan. “If you don’t mind my asking, who’s the father?”

Lydia swallows, blinking back tears. “Take your pick. It could be any one of the guards I had to whore myself out to so I could eat, or any one of the guards that would push me against the barracks wall with his hand around my throat and take what he wanted by force.”

“Holy shit.” Alice whispers. “You poor girl. I can’t begin to imagine the kinds of Hell you’ve been through.”

“You learn quick not to fight. They don’t like that. I got a concussion after one pistol-whipped me and then just… like I wasn’t lying there in a pool of my own blood with a gash across my forehead.”

The old woman wraps Lydia in a hug. “God, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry they did that to you. They’re gonna pay, little girl. They’re all gonna pay.”

“God, I hope so.”

**†**

SN: So you stayed with the Calverts.

DH: Yes.

SN: How long?

DH: Eighteen months. We lost Lydia on March 14, 2020, after she went into early labor. She named the little boy John, after Stiles’ father. They’re buried in the same casket in the Calverts’ back forty.

SN: Do you wanna talk about losing Lydia?

DH: There’s not much to say. She went into early labor, delivered, had a postpartum hemorrhage, and she died ten or so minutes after. The baby was dead before it was born. I think… I think that’s why she died.

SN: You think losing the baby killed her? A broken heart?

DH: That baby was the only good thing she had. She’d been raped, beaten, starved almost to death, and all she had to show was that baby. With him dead, she just gave up.

SN: It’s a distinct possibility. Now, how did the Calverts cope with your… nature?

DH: It was easy enough to explain. They were understanding, and actually liked that I knew when people were approaching long before them. Where we were was so quiet I could hear for miles, and the road we were on was way off of the highway.

SN: Were there any good times there?

DH: Well, there was the Christmas of 2019. A few other moments of really good times, too, but that was the best one.

**†**

The scent of roasting chestnuts fills the farmhouse, and snow piles gently down outside as the sun teases at the horizon, not yet having broken the dawn. Derek stares out the bedroom window, watching the golds and pinks in the east get brighter. Stiles is curled around his back, one arm slung possessively over his waist. He snuggles closer into his lover’s embrace, enjoying the warmth for just a moment longer before they have to get up.

Yawning, Derek slips out of the hold, and throws on some clothes as he looks at himself in the mirror. In the month and change since they’ve arrived, he already looks so much better. A shave, a haircut, and nearly thirty pounds put on, have all made him look much more like a person and less like a ghost. His ribs are still visible, and his cheeks are still a little too sunken, but he looks much better.

Derek lets his eyes burn alpha red, just a reminder that yes, that poison has finally left his bloodstream. He turns, looking at the lanky form in the bed behind him. Stiles struggled the most with refeeding syndrome, nearly going into shock several times. He probably would have died if Alice hadn’t managed to sneak some hardcore vitamin supplements from her doctor’s office in town, her training as a former nurse kicking in.

Stiles is still way too thin, but the pink has returned to his skin and the grey has left his hair, and he can eat most things without vomiting them back up. Derek has taken to dealing with most of the manual labor on the farm, seeing as he’s still preternaturally strong, even at his weakest. Stiles has found his niche in the animals, milking the cows, feeding the chickens, and even spending time with the horses in their stables. Lydia has joined Alice in most of the domestic work, even if her pregnancy is really starting to show at roughly five months.

The werewolf walks downstairs, the full aroma of the cooking chestnuts striking him as Ed tends to the fireplace and Alice reads a book in her armchair.

“Merry Christmas, you guys.” Derek says, sitting on the couch and chuckling as he notices the DVD player is on, and running _A Christmas Story_.

“Merry Christmas.” The two elders chorus together.

There’s a humble artificial Christmas tree up in the corner, with garland and lights strung across, and a beautifully designed angel at the top of it. Derek compliments the decoration, admiring it from the couch.

“It’s a damn shame it’s probably the only one in the state.” Edmund shakes his head. “Those assholes in Sacramento banned putting them up in public, same with anything with Santa Claus, or anything that isn’t Jesus. Called it idolatry.”

Alice nods gravely. “It’s really sad in town. The little ones don’t understand why they can’t write letters to Santa anymore.”

“They’ll pay for that one, too.” Derek says. “They’ll pay for it all.”

Lydia sweeps into the room, her stomach walking in before the rest of her. “I hear threats, must mean Derek is up.” She laughs, bending to hug him. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Lydia.” He responds.

The young woman looks much better. He and Stiles have forgone much of their food to give it to Lydia, and so, she’s recovered the best of all them. She glows in the way only pregnancy makes a woman, curling a hand around her stomach by instinct. She now sports a chin-length haircut, having opted to cut her strawberry blonde locks shortly after their arrival to the Calvert homestead, and she wears a loose red dress with white trim, as well as an old Santa hat on her head.

“No chores today. Animals are all fed, and the snow is just gonna keep falling.” Ed says. “Alice has the turkey in the oven, so everyone relax, and watch some Christmas movies. There might not be anything broadcast to our televisions anymore, but we got plenty of DVDs.”

“You want me to go get Stiles?” Derek asks.

Alice shakes her head. “Let him sleep. He helped me kill and gut that bird, the least we can do is let him sleep in until the meal is ready.”

So they watch _A Christmas Story_. They all laugh at Ralphie’s daydreams, and the leg lamp, and even the terribly racist Chinese chorus at the very end. There might not be any presents under the tree, but, for a single moment, it all feels more normal than any of them have in over a year.

**†**

SN: I’m sorry to cut you off, but that’s two hours. I have another interview in fifteen, and I need to file this recording personally, given your status.

DH: You can just say you need to make sure no one finds out about werewolves who doesn’t already know.

SN: (Chuckle) I was trying to be polite, but yes, that’s what it is.

DH: Same time next week?

SN: Sounds good.

END SESSION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a review, kudos me, all that shit. Please and thanks!


	3. Articles: Rise of the Holy States

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we see the early days of the Holy States, and I reuse the materials from the first attempt at this story, because I liked the writing and I needed to use the scene from them bugging out somehow.

_The Washington Post_  
_“Democracy Dies in Darkness”_

GOP SPLINTER PARTY “HOLY ALLIANCE” GAINS TRACTION IN STATE, FEDERAL LEGISLATURES

Erin Cunningham  
March 28, 2019

WASHINGTON, D.C.

After the brutal 2018 midterm elections, which left Democrats with 281 seats to 154 Republican seats in the House of Representatives, and fifty four Democrats to forty six Republicans in the Senate, a splinter party known as the Holy Alliance formed, led by the man who shockingly primaried former House Majority Whip Steve Scalise, Jason Maxim.

The Holy Alliance is, in the words of Speaker Nancy Pelosi, a brutal fundamentalist sect which poses an existential threat to democracy. President Pence has embraced them as a welcome breath of godliness in an ungodly place such as Washington. Perhaps more shocking, the Republican base, left adrift and stunningly upset after their catastrophic defeat at every level of government and the resignation of former President Trump in February, has embraced the Holy Alliance.

Though the Alliance polls well among Republicans, their polling among Democrats and independents indicates many of the GOP defectors will face heavy defeats in 2020. More dangerous, however, is the probability that President Pence will face an Alliance challenger, or, the Republicans will instead nominate someone more tolerable to the sensibilities of the Holy Alliance.

The GOP has sold its soul once, and now faces a powerful Democratic Congress and what is shaping up to be historic losses in the 2020 election. The gambit worked, and it elected a man who has tarnished the reputation of the United States perhaps permanently. If the Republicans try this tactic again, they will likely be supplanted by a more centrist, palatable party. Libertarian Party nominee Gary Johnson recently signaled the party will begin targeting Holy Alliance seats and other far right Republicans, hoping to chip away at the party and perhaps take over its dominance over American politics.

Will the Holy Alliance be the salvation of the Republican Party, or its downfall? We shall have to see.

**†**

Stiles looks to the northeast, flinching as the flash of light throws the twilight into stark day. It wasn’t even one of the nuclear bombs, just a low yield missile. That was Moffett Airfield in Palo Alto that was Just wiped out, along with who knows how many thousands of Airmen? There’s nothing on the TV except for the national emergency broadcast system, blaring the same warning siren. The internet has metaphorically exploded, with no word from any government on what is happening. All that is known is this: nukes are flying, and military bases are being hit by lower payload bombs.

There are reports of mushroom clouds blossoming over St. Louis, Cedar Rapids, Minneapolis, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and Memphis, as well as cities that are on or just south of the Mexican side of the border. There are other, less credible reports of men in strange, slate grey uniforms storming the capitals of the western states and taking governors and state senators hostage, or killing them. They’re unsubstantiated at best, and paranoid delusions at worst. Stiles doesn’t worry about the mystery soldiers, he worries about fallout.

His head snaps up as air raid sirens begin to blare, their long, whooping sound driving him to action. He tries calling his father, but the phone system is completely overwhelmed. The internet still works, thank God, so he plows into the pack group chat on Messenger and orders them all to the old Hale house, and to bring sleeping bags. In the distance, more explosions echo.

Stiles floors it into the Preserve, leaving a note for his father on the kitchen table that only says _‘Took shelter with the pack. -S’_. Derek is already there, pacing in front of the half-rebuilt manor with his phone in his hand.

“Stiles!” He calls out.

The younger man runs over to him, pulling the werewolf into a tight hug. “What’s happening?”

Derek shows him the phone, which shows a broadcast from the BBC. The reporter’s words chill Stiles to his core.

_‘Reports are now confirmed of nuclear explosions in several major American cities, as well as that the missiles which struck these cities were launched from silos inside the United States. President Pence has declared a state of emergency and enacted martial law in all states and provinces of the United States, as well are ordering a full recall of all troops back to the US.’_

Derek curses. “What the fuck is happening?!” He demands.

“I don’t know.” Stiles swallows thickly. “I have no clue.”

Both of their heads snap up at the sound of another explosion. The entire southern sky lights up in orange.

“Monterey.” Derek mutters.

The familiar roar of Scott’s motorcycle rips through the air, and he’s there, tearing off his helmet and staring at them with the same sort of childlike fear that is plastered on their own faces.

“What’s happened?” He asks. “News is still dead.”

Derek motions him over, and they all crowd around the tiny screen of his iPhone, watching as the reporters in Britain cover the horror from afar.

**†**

_The New York Times_

THE DARKEST DAY IN AMERICAN HISTORY

Dean Baquet  
March 29, 2019

NEW YORK

Last night, at exactly midnight eastern standard time, nuclear missiles in their silos in North Dakota launched. Within thirty seconds, mushroom clouds blossomed up and down the Mississippi River, from Minneapolis to New Orleans. Minutes later, major cities along the US/Mexico border were engulfed in nuclear fire. The last explosion was in Las Vegas, Nevada, at 12:07 AM EST.

Aegis missiles from ships in the Pacific later fell on various military assets on the mainland. Air Force fighters were forced to sink the USS _John C. Stevens_ as a result of what the Pentagon has called “rogue action”. The United States Seventh Fleet has moved from Japan and has reportedly engaged and sunk several rogue ships from the Third Fleet. The USS _Nimitz_ , flagship of the Third Fleet, is reportedly still loyal and has sunk multiple members of its own flotilla.

President Pence declared a national state of emergency and invoked Article Five of the NATO charter for the second time in history, enacting martial law in all United States territory. It is as of yet unknown who this uprising is, or why they are doing so, but with America’s nuclear missiles compromised, the world holds its breath.

**†**

Fighting. Real, actual fighting. The national guard in quite a few states has gone rogue, and the fallout along the Mississippi has made deployment of troops from the east damn near impossible. It’s ironic, and probably intended, that seventy five percent of the radioactive material has blown its way westward, leaving the eastern shore of the river a relatively safe area, compared to the toxic wasteland that stretches nearly a hundred miles out from the western bank.

Stiles quietly watches footage from the Battle of San Antonio on the television screen, fearful as the rebels make progress into downtown. Huge swathes of the plains have already fallen, and the Pacific Northwest has all but capitulated, the last few urban centers are completely surrounded. Northern California has broken off from the south, splitting the state into loyalist and rebel sects. Artillery fire from Clearlake lands regularly in San Francisco, and hundreds of thousands flee southwards across the irradiated border into Baja, hoping for God knows what.

“Turn it off, son. It’s just gonna give you another anxiety attack.” His father gently orders, even as he switches off the TV for him. “Go take a nap.”

“Okay.” He quietly whispers.

Stiles gets a couple of hours of restless sleep, his nap broken by the sound of more distant explosions from the city. He wakes around four, only to learn that San Antonio has fallen. Dallas remains as the last major city in Texas that’s still free. He walks downstairs, and, by the look of his face alone, the sheriff can tell he saw the news.

“You heard about San Antonio, then?” John asks, sighing.

Stiles nods. “Yeah. We’re not gonna win this, are we?”

“Probably not.” He replies.

“Should we run?”

The sheriff shakes his head. “Where to? They bombed the ports and the airfields, the trains haven’t run in almost a month, and the highways are clogged for at least fifty miles out of every city. These shitbags have got us by the balls.”

“What do we do, then? Just sit here and hope?!” Stiles snaps, something awfully close to tears in his voice.

“Kid, it’s all we can do.” John says.

The only reply he receives is a broken sob as Stiles leans against the doorframe, cushioning his head against his forearm, tears falling onto the parquet flooring of the kitchen.

**†**

_The Boston Globe_

A COWARD’S DEAL

May 2, 2019  
Jennifer Peter

SACRAMENTO

Yesterday, President Mike Pence, in the single greatest act of cowardice in American history, shamefully offered a peace brokerage with the rebels of the Holy Alliance, lead by James Maxim, former representative from Louisiana’s first congressional district, and now High Deacon of the new Holy States of America. The Holy States compromises the twenty two states of the continental United States west of the Mississippi River, but does not include Alaska and Hawaii.

One hundred and fifty nine years after Abraham Lincoln put the United States through five years of Hell to save this union, President Pence succumbed to the wills of traitors after a month of fighting. The _Globe_ has always tried to give a fair shake to leaders on both sides, but there is no other way to phrase this. The surrender of President Pence was a fundamental betrayal of everything America stands for. It was cowardly, weak, and an unforgivable act that forever shames our nation. It warrants impeachment.

Now, millions of citizens of this new monstrosity live in fear, held hostage by wild Christian extremists with nuclear weapons and an army of fools. The human rights violations committed during the brief civil war by the Holy Army are only a preview of what is to come, as genocide seems increasingly likely. The world will be forced to watch a rogue power which has already slaughtered millions of innocents kills millions more, with little ability to stop it. For now, the American people can only pray that our next president, whoever they are, will have the courage to right this monumental wrong, and once and for all put a stop to the tide of extremism and hatred that has shattered our nation and bathed the remnants in blood.

**†**

Stiles can only watch as the banner is run up the flagpole in something akin to horror. The flag is blue, with a white circle in the center. Running along the top and bottom are two white bars. In the center of the circle is a cross.

On the ground, the old flag is being stomped on. This isn’t the US, not anymore. This is something different entirely. On the steps of the town hall, Pastor Jim Richards stands, two armed guards on either sides. He smiles widely, benevolently gesturing to the crowd assembled in front of the town hall.

“My children!” He begins. “I bid thee welcome. At last, our paradise is made!”

There are cheers in the crowd, and a few boos, but they quickly peter out under the force of celebration.

“But paradise requires work, and upkeep. Sin is everywhere! We must remain vigilant and purge the godlessness of our blessed society. For now, let us celebrate our victory over the armies of Satan! God bless you, and may God bless the Holy States of America!”

Stiles swallows uneasily, looking at Scott next to him. This won’t end well.

**†**

Derek watches the address from Sacramento with macabre fascination. How could he not? The civil war had been so fast, it had made his head spin. The border area on this side of the Mississippi was a nuclear wasteland. The New West Bank, the new government called it. Already, thousands of prisoners were being shipped to clean up the hellscape of those states. The civilians who hadn’t evacuated were just more bodies to clean, slaves to build the future homes of the holy.

The HSA was untouchable, well hidden behind a wall of nuclear weapons and a demonstrated willingness to use them. Already China had cut off trade with the west coast, and flight patterns had to be diverted around the twenty two former American states that made up the world’s newest, and most dangerous, country. So few people had been able to escape.

It is with this brief mental rundown that Derek watches the High Deacon deliver his address before the Holy Council. The High Deacon is dressed in a plain white cassock, draped with a blue stole with the cross in the circle, the symbol of the Holy States. He’s a surprisingly young man, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, with a fairly handsome face and a crop of thick brown hair.

 _‘God be with you.’_ He opens.

 _‘And also with you.’_ The assembly of pastors and deacons responds.

_‘To my blessed children, the citizens of this holy nation, I am your High Deacon, the Holy Father James Maxim. I shall be your guide post, your humble servant before the light of our lord God Almighty, and your brother in Christendom.’_

Derek rolls his eyes. These born agains always took the ceremonial shit seriously, but couldn’t he skip to the part of the speech where he laid out the law of the land?

_‘We have fought many battles, and won a great victory, though not enough. Across the Borderland, there is still a nation of perditious sin. The pretender government of the United States still reeks with corruption and ungodliness. Nonetheless, we must endure. Just as we could wipe them out, so could they wipe us out. We may only hope that our godly brothers in that odious land will rise and cleanse them of sin as we have of this land. We have purged away so much evil, but much remains!’_

Here it is. The part that has Derek on edge. The part where the enemies of the state are announced. The High Deacon looks at his flock of sycophants, and his tone becomes more intense, even as he speaks in a normal voice.

_‘We may have burned the mosques of the Islamist militants who would have destroyed us, and burned the monsters who ripped babies from their wombs, and even driven out the Kikes who slew our Lord Jesus Christ, but there are more subtle sinners who remain. Sodomites and Sapphics, hidden but still present. Papists who worship Mary as a goddess, in an affront to the Lord. Mormons, idolaters, atheists, other godless folk. We must find and destroy all these and more! We must purge this society of the evils, and only then will our Lord God smile upon our land, make the wombs of our women fruitful, make our harvests bountiful, and ensure the passage of our own to the arms of Heaven eternal. We shall spread across this earth and deliver the holy way of God to all, purging it of godlessness, and bringing about God’s vision of a united world, with a great and holy capital in Jerusalem!’_

He swallows. That was a laundry list and a half, and he was less than a hundred miles from the very center of the madness. Derek paces the loft for the rest of the speech before sending a text to the pack to meet him at the loft, and to make sure they weren’t followed.

**†**

Scott and Stiles are there in a matter of minutes, followed quickly by Lydia, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. Jackson and Danny trickle in afterwords, and Derek turns to address the ragtag band before him.

“You all saw the address?” He asks.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “How could we not? Every television and radio played it.”

Danny shudders. “You’re not public enemy number one, Lyds. Everyone knows I’m gay, how long before they come for me? Who knows what’ll happen to me?” He blinks.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you all about. I think we need to consider making a break for it.” The alpha says.

“How exactly are we gonna run?” Scott asks. “They’ve got every land border locked down, and the east is a nuclear wasteland we wouldn’t survive crossing, not to mention the security there.”

“We’re not gonna run outside of the country, Scott.” Derek replies.

“Then where?” Isaac fields.

“My family has a house a few miles outside of Beatty, Nevada, just on the other side of the state line. It’s far enough from Vegas that the fallout won’t be a problem, and less than five hundred people live in the town. They knew my family well, they’ll keep us hidden.” He responds.

Stiles nods. “It’s not a bad idea. How many can it comfortably keep?”

“There’s ten bedrooms and four bathrooms. It has good sightlines, and the property is fenced in, with only one approach road. I think my parents intended it as a bug out spot if something ever went sideways, and I think this qualifies as sideways.”

“Why the Hell would I drag _my_ ass out to Nevada desert to hide in some shack?” Jackson rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I’m an enemy of the state.”

“Because the longer you spend around these fucks, the more likely you’ll be indoctrinated by them.” Lydia barks. “And when this whole experiment comes crashing down and we get to go back to our lives, I won’t have you being some holy roller.”

“And you’re a werewolf.” Stiles intones. “I did some research using the Argent bestiary and notable figures in the revolt. A lot of hunters are involved in the upper levels of government, as well as the Army of the Faithful. They may not be advertising it, but it’s open season on werewolves.”

“Then we run.” Danny says. “As soon as we can.”

“It won’t be hard to convince Dad. The entire police force got canned and replaced by the Guardians.” Stiles says. “Same with Melissa, she’ll want to run.”

“My mother’s been taken to some training center for teachers. The new curriculum and all, so she’ll be gone a few days. I can slip out pretty easily.” Lydia says.

Jackson blinks. “My parents were in New York on business. Probably still are, unless they went to the house in London.”

“I’m with Scott, and Erica and Boyd can just slip out.” Isaac says.

Derek nods. “Danny?”

“My folks will understand.” He says. “They’ve been worried for a while.”

“Okay. We’ll have to split up, take different routes until we get to a meeting point, and leave town at different times. There can be no hint we’re traveling together, or going underground. Pack light, only a few sets of clothes and personal effects. If a guard asks, say you’re visiting a relative in the Southwest. Any major city will do.” The alpha commands.

“What about Peter?” Stiles asks.

Derek shakes his head. “I haven’t heard from him since just before the war. I think hunters got him, or he had the misfortune of being in Las Vegas when the nuke fell.”

They draw up departure plans, each planning cars and groups they’ll travel in, coming up with detailed excuses to hold up under the questioning of a Guardian. They adjourn themselves after, with the plan being that Scott, Melissa, and Isaac will go south, Derek, Erica, and Boyd will head east directly, the Sheriff and Stiles will go north, and Jackson, Lydia, and Danny will go west before turning around. Derek distributes walkies to them so they can avoid cell phones, and then they carefully trickle out of the building, careful to not seem as a group, until only Stiles and Derek are left.

“Is this gonna work?” Stiles asks. “Are we really pulling an Anne Frank on this?”

“We don’t have much of a choice, Stiles. It’s that or risk being compromised.” Derek replies.

The teenager swallows. “I hate that you’re right. I hate that this happened.”

“I do, too. I’m sorry. I know you wanted to join the FBI and all that.”

“Doesn’t matter now. It’s not the FBI, it’s the Angels. It’s not likely we’re gonna be able to make back to the US, unless this whole freak show collapses in on itself.”

“It probably will. People don’t like dictatorships, and there’s a global embargo of the HSA on account of the nuclear war.”

Stiles nods. “They failed to take the side of the Mississippi that mattered. New York is the capital of the world, and it’s still free. Without nukes, they’d crush the Holy States. Hell, with nukes, they’ll still probably win.”

“Go home, get your dad ready.” He orders. “And be safe.”

“I will. You, too. I’ll see you at Gilroy.” The human replies.

It’s surprisingly easy to get his father to agree. He gets a vague confirmation text from everyone that the plan is on. Stiles and John pack up the Jeep, they’re the first to depart town, headed for San Jose and then taking the 101 down to the rendezvous point in Gilroy. They’re to make no contact with the others unless there’s an emergency, and they’re only to wait until sunset the next day, and depart for the cabin regardless of anyone they’ve left behind.

They don’t even encounter a checkpoint on the way out of Beacon Hills, and they’re waved through the one at the edge of San Jose with a warning.

“You folks be careful. Bunch of godless types are protesting the streets, attacking the faithful.” The checkpoint officer says.

“Thanks for the warning, son.” John replies. “Peace be with you.”

“And also with you, sir.”

True to the warning, there are crowds thousands strong rioting the streets. Stiles flinches as he hears distant gunshots, the sound of screamed orders of compliance through a megaphone, and the shrieks of terrified people. The crackdown has begun. Soon, noncompliance will mean death.

It’s a tense but uneventful drive out of San Jose, stopping only once more at the on-ramp to the 101 southbound. The radio only plays propaganda, so Stiles plugs in his phone and they listen to his own music. A few hours later, just as the sun is rising, they pull into the rendezvous, a nondescript motel at the edge of Gilroy. Derek’s Camaro is already parked outside, and he steps out to greet them.

“Anything from the others?” John asks.

Derek shakes his head. “Radio silence, so I’m assuming it’s going well.”

“Who’s next?” Stiles queries.

“Isaac, Scott, and Melissa should be here around eight. Then it’s Jackson, Lydia, and Danny at noon or so.”

Erica steps out of the car, hugging Stiles. “Good to see you guys.”

“Hey, Derek, breakfast?” Boyd asks.

“Wait until Isaac and his group get here, it’s only another couple of hours.” Derek orders.

They wait in the parking lot until, at about eight thirty, Melissa’s sedan pulls in with all three of them safe inside. As with the Stilinskis, their journey was uneventful, and they encountered minimal security presence. Derek goes himself to a still-functional McDonalds and returns with a large breakfast for them to snack on. With four hours to kill, they break from the parking lot with the agreement to return at eleven and wait for the last group to come.

Stiles and his father wind up perusing a line of clothing shops, many of which are noticeably bare, as new regulations regarding “godly” clothing have left most of the women’s section and much of the men’s woefully lacking. The few women seen out and about are dressed much more modestly, wearing full length pants and skirts, and at the least, elbow length shirts with high necklines.

After a few hours of walking around, he and John return to the parking lot, where everyone waits for them. There are still no communications from any of them, but the time edges by. Twelve passes without their arrival. One. Two. By three in the afternoon, without a word from Jackson, Lydia, or Danny, the pack starts to grow anxious.

Finally, at around three thirty, Jackson’s Porsche pulls into the lot. Lydia and Jackson get out, and, by the looks on their faces alone, Derek knows what happened.

“They… they took Danny. We saw them take him.” Jackson whispers.

“We were picking him up, but the Guardians beat us there. We saw them lead him out in cuffs.” Lydia adds.

“Jesus.” Melissa says, covering her mouth in horror.

“It’s too late for him.” Derek swallows thickly. “We can only hope they’re quick about it. Come on, it’s still a few hours to Beatty. We can stop somewhere else.”

They pile into their vehicles, and drive east.

**†**

Danny is brought to the town hall, and dragged into a courtroom. A lawyer stands at the other podium before the judge, who is a severe looking old man in a black cassock with a large silver cross hanging from his chest.

“Now trying prisoner number 294055, accused of…?” He trails off.

“Sodomy, in violation of Leviticus and Romans, your honor.” The lawyer for the people says.

“Very well, 294055, do you deny these charges?”

Danny spits in the direction of the judge. “Fuck you!” He bellows.

“I see. Do the people swear to the truthfulness of these charges?” He asks.

“We do, your honor.”

“Then the accused is hereby found guilty. Sodomite number 8205, you are hereby sentenced to be salvaged. However, as our Lord is merciful, if you will renounce your sin, and submit to three days flogging, you shall be given a merciful death, and a proper burial, with last rites and a mass of Christian burial, and be returned your name upon death, to be buried and memorialized in the Kingdom of Heaven.”

Danny stares at the judge with hardness in his eyes. “And the alternative?”

“You shall be executed upon the gallows, displayed for three days, and then burned, and the ashes scattered, with no rites, and no name. You shall never know the redemption of God’s love.” The judge intones. “Son, please, renounce your ways. Save your soul.” He implores.

“Go to Hell.” Danny says defiantly.

The judge sighs. “8205 has refused to be saved, and chooses Hellfire rather than cleansing of his sin. He is hereby sentenced to be hanged. Sentence shall be carried out immediately.”

**†**

It’s a nine hour drive to Beatty. They use the walkie talkies to keep in touch, Stiles and Erica playing a cross car game of I Spy, and delighting in the grotesque use of the word over. They plan ways to stop and meet up so as to avoid looking like they’re traveling together until they reach the deserted lanes of Death Valley, careful to avoid the highways and well-trodden paths.

When they finally reach Beatty, it’s after midnight. The town is almost entirely dark, spare a few flickering street lamps. None of the buildings are taller than two stories, and most of the houses are modular mobile homes planted on foundations. Derek leads them in a line with practiced ease through the gridded streets, driving them eastward for another few minutes before indicating they’ve reached their destination.

The turn onto the sandy driveway is tricky, as the pathway is nigh-indistinguishable from the rest of the terrain. Another couple of miles down the line, they pass a rusted old barb wire fence, and still they see no sign of the house.

Finally, like a ghost rising out the inky blackness of the desert night, the sprawling three story cabin exposes itself. Even in the night, Derek feels a rush of relief as his enhanced vision shows the sunbaked brown wood. The house is split into wings with a central core, and a massive porch covers the entire front of the house, its green slate roof as sturdy as ever.

He thanks his lucky stars he bothered to install updated technology in the building shortly after his return to Beacon Hills, including an updated well system and solar panels. Water and electricity were going to be key to their survival out here. The cars all pull to a stop in front of the large manor, because, that’s what the structure is. To call it a cabin would be like calling the White House a single family Greek revival. It just doesn’t do the enormity of the building justice.

Stiles marvels up at the large house, grinning as he slings a duffel over his shoulder.

“Sourwolf, you have a bad habit of understating things. This is bigger than your actual house.” He says.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Blame my aunt. She wanted a place in the desert, but never found one able to hold us all. So, the logical conclusion was to build one. This was how she spent the summer of 2005.”

“Impressive.” Lydia sighs.

“Hey.” Derek looks at her. “I’m sorry about Danny.”

“He’s dead. What can we do?” She shakes her head. “Just hope we aren’t next.”

The alpha appraises her carefully. “We carry his memory. As long as you live, so will he.”

John walks up to Derek. “We should get unpacked, it’s almost one. Get everyone into bedrooms and everything.”

“You’re right.” He agrees.

Derek marches up the steps of the house and unlocks it, flicking on the lights and unveiling the beautiful wooden interior. The inside matches the log cabin exterior, all earth tones and wooden accents. He goes across to another panel with light switches that turns on all the hallway lights, as well as those in the living room, dining room, and kitchen.

“All bedrooms are on the second floor, everyone.” He says. “The south wing master bedroom is mine, and you can fight over the one in the north wing.” Too tired for any further comments, everyone bids each other good night and heads upstairs.

Both wings are identical in layout, with three doors on either wall and a last door at the end each. Stiles winds up choosing the westward-facing bedroom to the immediate right of Derek’s, and his father takes the one opposite his. With Danny gone, everyone has a room to themselves. Nonetheless, he watches as Erica and Boyd slip into the north master bedroom.

The room is, much like the rest of the house, true to theme. The bed is a spacious queen with a simple grayscale geometric comforter over it. There’s a closet, as well as a full-body mirror and a dresser with a large flatscreen on top of it. Like his old bed in Beacon Hills, the headboard has space to display things.

Stiles places the paltry few items worth bringing, a photo of his mother, his homemade bestiary, a couple of favorite books, and his laptop. He plugs his phone into the wall, and then carefully slips underneath the blankets. He wonders if they can be tracked, but looks at the bars. No reception. Small blessings. He sleeps just a little more soundly that night.

**†**

_The Chicago Tribune_

ROUND-UPS OF LATINOS CONTINUE IN HOLY STATES, REPORTS OF OTHER HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATIONS EMERGE

May 12, 2019  
Colin McMahon

LOS ANGELES

Contacts within Southern California, kept anonymous for their own safety, have indicated that at least fifty thousand Latino people in the Los Angeles area have been detained by the Angels, the Holy States’ intelligence service. Other reports include the reported killing of nearly one hundred African Americans in Missouri, as well as rumors of the return of slave labor in the cleanup of nuclear waste in the fallout zone.

More than that, women have been outlawed from working, with the exception of teaching and nursing, though female doctors and physician’s assistants have been demoted to registered nurses. The family of California senator Kamala Harris, who still sits as a voting member of Congress following the peace deal brokered on May 1st, was executed on live television for crimes of sedition. Reportedly, the families of other representatives and senators in the Holy States have been executed more quietly.

In other notorious human rights violators such as  
China, North Korea, Iran, and Saudi Arabia, the pushback against the rise of the Holy States of America has been great, resulting in days of riots and protests unseen before in many countries. Congress recently passed the Human Rights Act in a domestic response, a stunning reform in the justice system, as well as redefining the United States’ international position on the issue. Harsh sanctions have befallen much of the world, including Russia, China, and Saudi Arabia, as well as other former US allies. Even Israel, the golden child of the United States in the Middle East, has begun to feel the pressure to end colonization of Palestine.

The economic results of the breakup of the US continue as the Dow Jones plummets to 6,102 points at close yesterday, falling lower than the 2008-2009 financial crisis ever did from its market high of 24,310 points prior to the outbreak of the crisis. In Russia, the ruble has fallen to an all time low of ten percent its value last month in part due to aggressive sanctions and the overall global downturn. Canada and the US have now joined together in a tight economic and military pact to defend themselves from the Holy States. Mexico, overwhelmed by over a million American refugees, has stayed out of this agreement until it can funnel the people to the free America.

All this is backdrop to the people trapped in this new theocracy, which has closed out the internet, destroyed cell phone towers, and now monitors phone calls made over landline, heavily controlling the flow of information in and out of the country. Already, two of the _Tribune’s_ contacts in the HSA have been captured and likely executed, and others fear a similar fate. How long can this stasis last, and what will happen when it breaks? As of yet, no one can say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, another interview, this one explaining the last days of the Holy States.


End file.
